


Higher Love

by hit_it_with_a_shoe



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Break Up, M/M, Memory Alteration, Romance, Steve Winwood Music, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_it_with_a_shoe/pseuds/hit_it_with_a_shoe
Summary: “You must’ve made me pretty mad,” says Mac, “to make me erase you.”Dennis stares at him, hard.Mac stares back. He says: “So what are you gonna do about it?”Or, an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd for now.

_ I ditched work today. _

 

The platform buzzes with early morning commuters, chatter muffled under coats and hats and wound-up scarves. Dennis stands amidst the crowd, frozen fingers wrapped around his briefcase, as his usual train slides into the platform. He fights the urge to massage at his temples - he’s been trying to shake a headache since he woke up this morning.

 

Usually, Dennis would elbow the other red-nosed commuters to the side to get into the warmth of the compartment first.

 

_ Took a train out to Jersey. _

 

“Last call for Stone Harbour,” calls a railway employee two platforms down, “last call for Stone Harbour.”

 

_ Haven’t been there since I was a kid.  _

 

He finds himself running before he can even think about it, pushing strangers out of the way. His briefcase gets caught on hips, arms, stomachs as he passes. Uncaring, he pushes them aside, eyes stuck on the closing doors. It’s a near thing. He yanks a woman out of the open train door - knocks her back onto the platform as the doors close on his chest. He just about wriggles through, and tugs his briefcase in behind him with a curse. 

 

The comparative silence of the semi-empty compartment is disarming. Dennis braces himself with an elbow against the door frame as the train starts to move, catching his slight stumble. 

 

The only other passenger in the compartment is a man about Dennis’ age. Trimmed beard, dark hair. He peers over the sprawl of his newspaper, curious. Probably, Dennis acknowledges, because he’d pushed that woman out of the way to get in here. 

 

Dennis spares a nod, and then busies himself sitting down opposite, settling his coat over the chair next to him, his briefcase at his feet. He spreads the black leather journal out over his lap, knocks the pen nib into place with a click against the thick pages. 

 

_ Don’t know why I’m suddenly going back. Nostalgia is a bitch, I guess. _

 

He glances up over the seats, eyes catching on the slicked-back head of hair a few seats in front of him, face still obscured by the newspaper. 

 

_ Just like my ex-wife. _

 

*

 

The Jersey Shore is cold as shit this time of year. 

 

Dennis waits in line at a too-quaint coffee shop. The snow is piled up outside, shoved to the edges of the salted sidewalk by a wide-brimmed shovel. Cars pass. Not too many. Only locals stick around this time of year. 

 

The coffee is scalding, and it steams against his cold cheeks for the whole walk down to the pier. Stationary fair ground rides cut bright colours against the washed-out sky, and Dennis sits with his back to them, legs swinging over the edge of the pier. The water below is a temperamental grey. 

 

He warms his hands around the paper cup, looking out over the bare view. There’s no colour here, no vibrancy. He doesn’t make eye contact with the closed storefronts, or the trash clogging around the pillars of the pier. 

 

Insead, he watches the figure wandering down the beach, dim yellow scarf hanging around his neck. His steps are loose in the sand. As Dennis looks, he takes a swig off the top of a bottle of whiskey. Bird Dog. Kentucky blended. Dennis can recognise the label from here. 

 

The figure catches his eye. The man from the train. A tilt of the head, and he raises his bottle in a kind of friendly greeting. Dennis raises his own steaming cup in acknowledgement. 

 

_ Maybe this is what I’ve been needing: a new outlook.  _

_ A new set of impulses to give in to.  _

 

He looks down into his drink, lets the steam settle on his frozen face. 

 

*

 

There’s no one to call into work for today, save his Philly-backwash clients, so Dennis takes his time with it. He trudges through the snow, footsteps cutting through into the sand. In his childhood memories, this place was always summer-hot, with bright colours and perfect weather. He remembers ditching his sister, and wading through the water to hide away under one of the piers along here. Remembers the salt of first kisses. 

 

_ Or is it just that old habits die hard? _

 

He pokes around an abandoned property that he finds beyond the fenced-off curve of the beach. Snow soaks through his work shoes, and he stamps off the clumps that cling to his sole, lets them melt on the front porch. Footsteps follow him across the snow like a crime scene, ice-blue over the crushed leaves of hardy beach foliage in the garden. 

 

Wide windows show his own red-nosed reflection. The curt mouth, the sharp cheekbones. He rubs his gloved hands together, joints stiff, and then tries to pop open the window sash, but there’s some kind of lock in place.

 

The headache pulses at his temples.  

 

Place like this, there’s probably a couple of beers in the fridge, at least. Some gin tucked away in the cupboard. Dennis tosses his empty coffee cup in frustration. It lands, crumpled, in a snowdrift beside the steps. 

 

*

 

“Want some?” 

 

He looks up from his journal. It’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey, top unscrewed, offered with a too-bright smile. Over the next seat, a yellow scarf drips melted snow. 

 

Dennis purses his lips. “Do I know you?” 

 

“Uh, no?” The smile doesn’t falter. “Name’s Mac.” 

 

Dennis shakes the offered hand. Warm. Callused. 

 

“Dennis,” he says.

 

“Alright,” nods Mac, “what’ve you got over there?” He sits up a little, to make up for the aisle between them, trying to get a glance at Dennis journal. Dennis snaps it shut.

 

“You were offering?” Dennis nods curtly to the whiskey. He could smell it, when the man waved it at him. 

 

“Oh, sure.” It’s a bustle of movement as Mac switches seats. He settles next to Dennis, bringing with him the smell of whiskey and wet fabric. 

 

The suddenness of the company is unexpected, but Dennis is in just enough of a mood to allow it. The promise of alcohol greases the wheels a little. Hair of the dog, and all that.

 

“Thanks.” A first sip of whiskey is just rough enough to smooth the way for a second.

 

“Where you headed?” The bottle passes between them, and Mac takes the drink just as easy, cheeks still a little ruddy from the cold.

 

“South Philly,” says Dennis. Mac is slumped in his seat, seemingly unaware of the way he’s broken into Dennis’ space. His shoulder takes up some of the back of Dennis’ seat, his wet coat getting the fabric damp.

 

“No kidding, me too,” he grins, tilting the bottle like a toast. It’s uncomfortably genuine. Maybe loosened by alcohol, telling by the slightly unfocused glimmer in his eyes. 

 

Day drinking on a train with a stranger. 

 

Maureen would have disapproved. She would have thrown a fit.

 

Dennis shrugs. “What are the chances?” 

 

He wishes they both had a bottle for a real toast. It feels like a celebration, crammed into the two-seat capacity of the train aisle. 

 

_ A new outlook.  _

 

_ What does that look like? _

 

*

 

It’s that same damn scarf that catches his eye. 

 

“Hey, you need a ride?” He regrets rolling down the window as the cold rushes over him, but Mac doesn’t take long to decide. 

 

“Thanks,” he grins as he piles in. Red-knuckled fingers immediately reach for the volume on the speaker, turning down Steve Winwood’s  _ Higher Love _ . 

 

The red light changes, and Dennis rides the bumper of the car in front of them instead of making a comment. 

 

“Where to?” he says, once they’ve made it through the intersection. Streetlights waver around Dennis’ peripheral, throwing Mac’s profile in and out of shadow. 

 

“I’m a few minutes away from here, easy,” replies Mac, leaning against the window to look out. “Take a left,” he instructs. His breath fogs against the glass. “I’m by that 24-hour laundromat. The one that kept getting caught up in that gang war a year or so back.”

 

“I know the one,” says Dennis, “rough neighbourhood, huh?”

 

“You bet, dude.” 

 

Dennis studies Mac’s face more than the road. Something about the subtle downturn of his mouth. The ease of his expression.

 

He gets caught looking. “Drunk, huh?” says Mac, mouth curving up. His fingers tap out a rhythm on the car door. 

 

“Sure.” 

 

He reaches forward, and turns Steve Winwood back up. 

 

They’re halfway through the next song when they pull up to Mac’s apartment. Dennis parks, and Mac winds that scarf around his neck again, preparing to brave the cold. Dennis watches him tuck the end in with blunt fingertips. 

 

“You got somewhere to be tonight?”

 

Mac tilts his head in consideration. “Not really, dude.”

 

The invitation feels strange in his mouth. “Why don’t we go for a nightcap at my place?”

 

“A nightcap, huh?” He looks unsure.

 

“I’ve got nine hundred dollars-worth of wine that my ex-wife left in my basement, and no one to drink it with,” says Dennis, knuckles flexing around the steering wheel. “Could do with some company.”

 

“Nine hundred.” He whistles, low. “Sure, why not?”

 

“Yeah,” says Dennis, turning the key in the ignition. The car starts up again with a low hum. “Why not?”

 

*

 

Mac sways in Dennis’ living room with a liquid hundred-fifty dollars hanging from his fingers. The bottle is uncorked, still warm. The first gulp was swallowed down with no regard for letting the wine breathe. No pause to take in the bouquet. 

 

Dennis watches Mac steal another drink, as he picks through the container of salted peanuts that sits on his chest. A few have already been lost to the crevices of the couch. 

 

“What do you know about wine?” Dennis asks, just for the hell of it. 

 

Mac stops, peers at the label. His shirt is threadbare at the throat, the sleeves cut roughly at his shoulders. “Cabinet  _ sauvignon _ ?”

 

Dennis snorts. 

 

“What,” says Mac, “that’s not right?” He looks again. “Cab-er-net,” he sounds out, “ _ Cabernet sauvignon _ ?” He squints into the bottle. “It’s red?”

 

Dennis stares at him for a beat. Then he laughs, full-bodied and aching. “That’s a- that’s a good observation,” he manages, once he’s calmed down a little. “Give me the-” he waves his hand. 

 

Mac passes the bottle, and Dennis gives a thoughtful crunch of his peanuts as he inhales at the neck, sloshing the wine around. 

 

“Mm,” he says, catching that same pitch he’s heard used since he was six years old around a diplomatic dinner table, “full-bodied. The aroma of… of rich forest fruits. Something-” another inhale. He takes a long drink to wash down the peanuts, not even tasting the wine until it hits the back of his throat. “Blackcurrant and oak,” he rasps, clears his throat, “something a little acidic, on the back of the palate.”

 

Mac is looking at him, perplexed, and Dennis takes another swig. He chokes on his own laughter until wine sprays out of his mouth, landing deep-red on his button-up. 

 

Mac snorts, too. They laugh in the middle of Dennis’ too-big living room, the sound of it foreign in the space. It’s good, but the ache of a hangover starts again at Dennis’ temples, premature, but not unexpected with how much he’s had to drink. 

 

“I’m gonna get water,” he says. Their hands clasp as Mac heaves him up. A stumble as Dennis laughs again, wiping the wine from his chin with the back of his wrist. “This is good for me,” he promises, leading Mac to the kitchen, “you’re good for me, Mac.”

 

When he turns from the fridge, Britta in hand, Mac is looking at him, leaned against the door frame. 

 

“You get dumped, or what?” he asks.

 

Dennis avoids his gaze as he pours out two tall glasses of water. The thought of more liquid right now makes his stomach turn, which is a good indicator that he needs it. 

 

“My ex-wife left me,” he says. He hands over Mac’s glass. “A week ago. Left me with the house, but she’s got me paying alimony out the ass until she finds another man to- to weave into her web.” He snorts, takes a drink, bracing himself on the wall next to Mac. The cold soothes his headache, a little.

 

“Just before Valentine’s, huh?” says Mac. “That’s pretty cold, man.”

 

“Frigid bitch,” sneers Dennis, but there’s less behind it than he means for there to be, and Mac laughs again, right up close. His breath is on Dennis’ mouth. 

 

“You don’t need her,” says Mac, like he knows shit about divorce. Maybe he does. He’s got the kind of face that’s easy to trust, anyway. 

 

Dennis pushes himself away to settle on the doorframe opposite, water glass hanging from lazy fingers. 

 

“I’m thinking I need a change,” he says. He gazes at Mac through heavy-lidded eyes. The light from the kitchen throws half his face into a hazy kind of shadow. “Change of pace.” He takes a drink. “I’m fuckin’ just- done with women, you know?”

 

Mac watches him quietly over the rim of his glass. His mouth comes away wet when he swallows. “You just need to push yourself,” he says, “if you really try, you’ll get back into it.”

 

“I mean, yeah,” says Dennis, “yeah, of course.” His head swims. “But you know what I mean, right? You get it?”

 

“Yeah,” says Mac. His half-lit face is disarming. More difficult to read than before. “I get it.”

 

Relief settles in Dennis’ chest. “Yeah,” he sighs. He goes to take another drink of water but his glass is empty. 

 

What is his angle, here? He can’t remember the last time he had a conversation without pushing towards some kind of end goal. If Mac was a woman, Dennis would have had him between the sheets by now. 

 

“You should stay,” blurts Dennis, “for Valentine’s day. We should do something.”

 

Mac’s expression twists uncomfortably. He shifts, mouth twisted, shoulders squaring. “I’m not gay,” he says, all of a sudden. “I’m not fucking-” he huffs, angry.

 

“No,” says Dennis roughly, shaking his head too fast. “No, no, man, you’ve got the wrong idea. I just want to- just two guys hanging out. We can drink away the rest of my bitch ex-wife’s wine. Fuck Valentine’s day, you know? Just- fuck it.”

 

Mac’s expression is too watchful, for a moment. Dennis runs hot under his gaze. And then a smile breaks across Mac’s features. “Alright,” he says.

 

Dennis lets out a heavy breath. “Alright,” he nods. “Good.” 

 

*

 

He wakes sprawled on the couch, neck aching. Mac is draped across his chest, bare skin running warm in the cold of the living room. His head pounds, his cheek twitches when a strand of dark hair brushes against it. 

 

His mouth feels raw, swollen. His belt is half-undone, buckle biting uncomfortably into his skin. 

 

_ A change of pace.  _

 

Dennis can feel the drool soaked into his half-unbuttoned shirt.  _ It’s fine _ , he tells himself, fighting down the panic he knew would come with this. It takes a second to decide whether the roll of nausea is hangover related, or just a symptom of, well- 

 

Mac snores against his chest, fingers curled loosely around Dennis’ bicep. 

 

“It’s fine,” Dennis reminds himself, out loud this time. His voice is rough with sleep, with the edge of panic, but he forces his eyes closed again, lets his breathing fall in time with Mac’s. 

 

All he needs is a change of pace.

 

*

 

Waking up for the second time is rougher. 

 

“I’m not gay.”

 

“I know.”

 

Mac doesn’t seem placated by this. He stands in Dennis’ kitchen, coffee mug in hand. Still in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and grey with the smell of alcohol and last night’s sweat. “I swear, dude, I’m not.”

 

“I know, Mac,” explains Dennis, patient in the face of a wine-drunk hangover. “I’m not either. This is simply two men deciding on a… change of pace.”

 

He watches the phrase sink in, takes note of the precise flickers of confusion across Mac’s face. “I don’t know what that- I don’t-”

 

“Just to see how it goes,” says Dennis. Soothing. “No harm in that, right?”

 

“I don’t know, dude.” Mac cracks his neck like he wants to step out of his own skin. “It seems-”

 

“Look,” interjects Dennis, before this can turn into something it’s not. “You’ve been with women, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“A lot of them, huh?” He takes a casual drink of his too-hot coffee, drags his eyes up and down Mac’s rumpled figure. “Good-looking guy like you? Probably pretty experienced, right?”

 

“I mean, sure.” Socks shift on the kitchen tile. Chest puffed. Preening. “Definitely, bro.”

 

“And I’ve got an ex-wife,” says Dennis. A challenge. “I’ve been married. So, I’m not gay.”

 

“...Right.” Mac narrows his eyes, and then settles into it. “Yeah. I get that.”

 

“Neither of us can be gay, because we’re into women, you see?” Dennis has this one. Ball sailing through the air, and it’s all net.  _ Why the sports metaphors?  _ “We’re just-”

 

“Getting a change of pace.”

 

“Yeah, there you go, you got it,” says Dennis, all steady encouragement. Just the confidence in his own voice soothes his shaking heartbeat. “A change of pace,” he repeats. “Absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

 

*

 

The drive back to Mac’s place is mostly silent. Conversation ebbs more than flows. They talk about the Phillies, about the slow approach of baseball season.

 

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Dennis pulls up in front of the 70s-built apartment complex.  

 

Mac hesitates at the half open car door. He turns, gaze flitting low, unsure. 

 

“I had a good night,” he says, finally, not making eye contact. His hair is a mess, no longer slicked back. It falls over his forehead, sticks out a little on the side. 

 

“Well.” Dennis inclines his head, stares at the empty parking spot in front of him. “Good.”

 

“Did you?”

 

The question is too earnest. Dennis cracks his neck, sits up straighter. “Yes,” he admits. “I mean, I don’t remember much of it, but what little I can recall was… good.” A harsh breath through the nose. “Nice.”

 

Mac makes an aborted movement towards the open door, and then reconsiders. Hesitance is heavy in his expression, he gnaws at his lip for a second, weighing the moment. 

 

“What?” says Dennis, but then all in a rush Mac’s hands are on his coat, fisting at the lapels. He leans in, mouth parted for a- 

 

Dennis jerks back, just enough to maintain the space between them. 

 

The shock of it only kicks in a few seconds later. He looks at Mac’s mussed hair, the chapped bottom lip, the rough stubble. Bundled up in a coat with holes tearing open at the elbows. The scarf around his neck is clearly second hand, at least, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say it looks as if he’s been sleeping on the street.

 

Fingers slowly uncurl around his lapels. The air changes. “I-”

 

“Mac,” he says, catching an exposed wrist in a vice-grip. Dark eyes snap up to meet his. A pulse point throbs under his fingertips. Dennis closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. He opens them to find Mac still watching him, gaze defiant as a cornered animal. The words weigh on his tongue before he speaks. “Do you want to get brunch?”

 

It startles a rough snort out of Mac, and Dennis feels his own breath turn sour. His grip around Mac’s wrist is clammy, so he drops it, rubs at his forehead. He starts the engine up. 

 

“You want to get brunch?” says Mac. He laughs. 

 

Dennis shifts in his seat. “That’s what they do, right?” 

 

“They?”

 

“You know,” he shrugs, waves a hand, “they get brunch.” 

 

Understanding takes it’s time on Mac’s face. “But you said we’re not-”

 

“I know,” huffs Dennis. His pulse is beating too loud in his ears now, every misstep is vinegar on the back of his tongue. “If you don’t want to go, then-”

 

“Okay,” says Mac. He tilts his head, shakes his shoulders out like he’s getting ready for an arm wrestle.

 

Dennis deflates in surprise. “Okay?”

 

“Yeah.” He nods, smile unreasonably easy on his face. “I’m fuckin’ hungry, dude. Let’s get brunch.”

 

Dennis rights himself with a nod, shifting his grip on the steering wheel. Relief reels through him, but he gives Mac another cursory glance up and down. “You go change,” he instructs, “I’ll wait here.”

 

Mac looks surprised, although he shouldn’t be. A trail of drool has dried tacky at the corner of his mouth. 

 

“Brush your teeth,” Dennis adds. 

 

“Sure thing,” says Mac, and then he piles out of the car. His smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he turns to poke his head back in. “Next time you see me, I’ll be even more better looking,” he promises. A wink. 

 

Against his better judgement, Dennis’ skin runs hot. 

 

More better. Jesus Christ. 

 

He waves Mac off, and presses a hot cheek to the cold of the window.

 

*

 

“Hey. Hey, buddy.”

 

The knocking on the window is annoying enough for Dennis to roll it down. The man at his car door is tucked into a ratty coat, ears bright red from the cold. 

 

“What?” says Dennis, tone sharp. 

 

The man fiddles with his jacket. He’s short. Unkempt. The sound of his shifting boots on gravel drags Dennis’ headache back from the depths. “What are you doing?” 

 

“Excuse me?” Dennis brow furrowed. 

 

It’s best to be short with these types, get them on their way quickly. 

 

“Uh. Why are you here?” says the man. More inane questions. He’s peering into Dennis’ car, through to the sidewalk and the row of beaten-down buildings. 

 

Irritation shorten’s Dennis’ movements. He shoos the man’s hands away when bare fingers rest on his rolled-down window. “Look,” he huffs, “here.” Pennies and dimes from the glove compartment drop into clumsy hands. “Now get out of here, shoo.”

 

“Well, sure, buddy.” The strange little man pockets the change, sparing one last look through Dennis’ open window. He rounds the back. Dennis watches him in the rear-view mirror, the strange, hunched gait. He’s whistling something familiar. 

 

Dennis shuts his eyes, the pulse of a migraine threatens just at the front of his skull. 

 

The streets of Philly need a goddamn clean up. Someone should do something about that.

 

*

 

The hair is slicked back again, when Mac climbs into the car, reeking of aftershave. He brings a wave of cold air with him, and a small flurry of snowflakes to melt into the upholstery.

 

“Ready?” he says. It’s been half an hour. 

 

Dennis looks him over. The trimmed stubble, the excited smile. He takes a steadying breath. “Is that a _ tie _ ?”

 

Mac frowns down at his outfit, fingers fussing at the lines of it. “Ah,” he winces, “I knew it was too formal. You know what, let me just-”

 

Dennis stills Mac’s fingers where they’re fumbling at the neck his collar. “It’s fine,” he assures.  

 

Mac beams, looking like a kid at a kindergarten graduation. His hands lower. “You like it?”

 

Off balance, like the time his sister sat too hard on her side of the seesaw and sent him flying into the dusty wood chips of the playground.

 

“I’ve seen worse, that’s for sure,” says Dennis. 

 

_ The things I do to save face. _

 

Snowflakes drift down from the washed-out clouds above. They speckle the windshield, melting in clumps. Dennis looks over at Mac, watches him fuss with the stocky tie, watches the way his thumb tucks under the fabric, the way he fumbles a button back into place. 

 

He averts his gaze, sets the gear shift into drive. His hand almost slips when Mac speaks.

 

“And I can kiss you, now that I’ve brushed my teeth?”

 

Dennis’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t know if it’s confidence or ignorance that settles Mac’s tone so easily, but his tongue goes dry under that expectant gaze, at the sight of Mac’s hands still tucking, pulling at the tie in his peripheral. 

 

Stupidly, Dennis wants to tell him off for saying the words aloud, for acknowledging it. The impulse is ridiculous. Infantile, even.

 

He clears his throat. Comes up with: “If you- I mean. Yes.” 

 

Mac’s mouth curves into a grin, the same one that reaches his eyes, turns them dark and bright all at the same time. 

 

He leans over the gear stick, hand at the back of Dennis’ head. A firm kiss to Dennis’ cheek.

 

A smile caught up there amidst the rasp of trimmed stubble. 

 

Dennis breathes through the jolt of adrenaline, eyes darting over the empty street, away from the sound of Mac’s sigh of satisfaction when he settles back into his seat. The smile is just as disarming in profile. Snow continues to fall as Mac gazes out to the day-old slush on the sidewalk outside, still smiling. 

 

_ A change of pace. _

 

It’s a start.

 

*

 

His sister lives up six goddamn flights of steps, and Dennis storms up all of them to beat his fist against the scratched-up wooden door. Nearly cracks a dent in it. 

 

“Dee,” he yells, “open up the goddamn door!” A dead-eyed druggie stares at him from down the hall, halfway through her own doorway. “I will end you!” Dennis promises, shaking his fist in the musty hallway, “that’s right, mind your own  _ fucking  _ business!”

 

Dee finally opens the door with the clatter of a lock unclasping. 

 

“Holy shit, Dennis. It’s four in the afternoon, what the hell do you want?” Dennis pushes roughly past her, into the low-ceilinged apartment. She looks half asleep, and stinks of stale cigarettes. 

The curtains are closed. The room smells overwhelmingly of fabreeze. 

 

He trips over a pair of ratty shoes in the hallway.

 

“ _ Fucking _ dickbag,” he spits, just for the brief, violent satisfaction of it.

 

His sister follows him on his rampage into her dim living room. She only interrupts when he starts yanking her furniture around, pulling up her couch cushions. 

 

Dee looks on. “Hey, asshole, what the fuck are you doing?”

 

Panic and furious anger bubble in his lungs. “I know you have it,” he spits, “you  _ bitch _ ! You bird, you! I know you have it, so where is it!” He launches a kick at one of the ugly, decorative cushions he’s cast to the floor, and it flies across the room to land at her bare feet.

 

She sighs, rolls her eyes. “You’re a real goddamn mess, Dennis,” she says, far too pleased about it. “It’s in the kitchen.”

 

Dee disappears through the doorway, and the room seems to shrink in her absence, right down to the beige futon and the ugly paintings. Dennis sinks down onto the seat behind him, white-knuckle hands going a washed-out yellow in the weak lamplight. He stares blindly at the shut curtains, wipes his clammy hands on a crochet throw. 

 

She reappears, nursing a glass of water, and hands over the beige envelope with something like pity in her stare. 

 

It’s rough along the seam, the glue dry against his fingers like it’s been open for a few days. The card inside is a neat rectangle. She reads it over his shoulder, even though she already knows what’s there, even though they both do. 

 

“I didn’t know that was his real name,” she says, “his parents must be dumb as shit.” She snorts a laugh, “so goddamn stupid.”

 

Dennis couldn’t give less of a shit right now. “That fucking asshole,” he hisses, harsh grip bending the card under his thumb. He swallows at his rage, “I knew it. You know, I just knew it. I cornered him on the front steps of his ridiculous church. I tried to talk some sense into him, Dee. You know what he did?”

 

“Tried to kick the shit out of you,” says Dee. 

 

“Tried to,” spits Dennis. “Tripped and landed flat on his ass when he tried to karate kick me. Kept acting like he didn’t know who I was.”

 

“Wasn’t acting, I guess,” says Dee. She shrugs. 

 

Reliving the scene now, Dennis almost goes faint with rage. The confusion on Mac’s face where there should have been resentment. The way he’d fought Dennis’ hand off his shoulder, his arm. 

 

He breathes, and stands up. It’s easier than it should be, to shake the chaotic emotions off until he feels cold again, until everything settles back into place. The room around him is still too small. 

 

“He wants to fucking erase me?” He’s muttering, he knows. The breaths are coming too fast, but he’s cold, cold down to his shaking fingertips. “Wants to play God?”

 

“Not this shit again,” he hears faintly. Dee is backed off to the wall watching him. Always so goddamn judgemental. 

 

“I’ll fucking show him God,” Dennis vows. The card is biting too hard into his hand. It leaves bright red imprints in his palm, deep as cuts. Dennis lets out a roar, rage shaking through him. “ _ Fuck _ his god.”

 

He trips on the same goddamn pair of busted shoes by the door. “And fuck your fucking boots!” he screeches. 

 

The door slams shut behind him. 

 

*

 

They don’t want to let him into the practice. 

 

“Sir!  _ Sir! _ You don’t have an appointment, you can’t-” 

 

The sad collection of people in the waiting room watch him with the blandest of interest. Disgusting, in the way they cling to cardboard boxes, tears drying on their cheeks. He rushes past them, elbowing off the shrill little assistant as she tries to yank at his coat, tries to pull him back. 

 

“Doctor Mathis, I’m so sorry,” she pants, when Dennis finally flings open the door he’s been looking for. “I couldn’t stop him, he-”

 

“It’s alright,” says the doctor. He’s white on white on white in the small office space. Even the air is sterile. “We were just finishing up, weren’t we, Mr Housten?” 

 

Mr. Housten looks up at the sound of his name, and Dennis resents the way grey, bushy eyebrows lift to take in the scene. “Sure were,” says the man. He steps gingerly over a pile of junk on the floor. The edge of a quilt gets caught under his shoe, and he winces, although he doesn’t look down. “Tonight?” he stops to clarify at the door. 

 

The doctor nods. “Tonight. Sleep well, Mr Housten.” The old man snorts. The door swings shut behind him. 

 

“Now,” says Dr Mathis, fixing Dennis with a uncomfortably medical gaze. “There must be a reason for your interruption.”

 

Dennis has always had a certain respect for doctors. The way they grasp a patient's life and wellbeing, the way they can shake it apart if they choose to. Respect demands respect - but Dennis finds none of it in the doctor’s gaze. He draws himself up, steels his jaw. 

 

“This,” says Dennis. He sets the mangled card on the table.

 

Dr Mathis picks it up, and holds it lightly in sterile, blunt fingers. “Ah. Dennis Reynolds. I apologise,” he says. “You shouldn’t have seen this. Very unprofessional of us, I-”

 

“Cut the shit, Doc,” says Dennis. The receptionist is watching them, clinging to the doorway like a sixties film extra. The doctor doesn’t so much as flinch. “I’ve had my name on more of these cards than I can count. They basically hand them out with the goddamn restraining orders now. Girl gets her heart broken, gets me erased. I know how it goes.”

 

“Eight,” says Mathis. 

 

“What?”

 

“You, specifically, have been the cause of eight erasure procedures. Although,” he regards Dennis with a levelling stare, “they’ve slowed remarkably over the past two years. With one exception.” He tilts the card in his hands. 

 

“What’s the reversal process?” says Dennis. He wants to speed this up. 

 

“Excuse me?”  

 

“The reversal process, asshole. Who do I have to pay? What do I have to do?” He feels haggard at the edges, feels the urge to spit on that smug face staring back at him.

 

“I’m afraid the procedure is mostly permanent,” Mathis explains, “the brain is very complex. Some memories could, hypothetically be recovered. That would be unusual, though. The most that can be expected is the barest sense of emotional or mental discomfort.”

 

Dennis digests this information. It rocks through him like seismic waves. Between one breath and the next, he makes up his mind. 

 

“I want it done,” he declares.

 

“Sir,” pipes up the receptionist, still lingering in the doorway, “we don’t have any vacancies until three weeks from now. Valentine’s is our busiest time of year-”

 

Mathis waves her off. “I have a lunch break tomorrow,” he says, addressing Dennis. “Twelve-thirty sharp. Are you available?”

 

“Yes,” says Dennis, immediately. He wants to smack this man in the teeth, but he can play along with the rules to get what he wants. “I’ll have to consult my schedule, but I’m sure that’s fine.”

 

“Alright,” says Mathis, eyebrow raised. “We’ll pencil you in.”

 

The receptionist leads him back through the too-small hallways, and explains the procedure as they go. Dennis’ pulse thrums in his ears. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It takes too long to clear out his apartment.

 

_ Now, the first step, is to go home and collect everything you own that has some association with Mac. We will use these objects to create a sort of mental map of his presence in your life over the past seven hundred and thirty-two days. _

 

Dennis fills two trash bags. 

 

Tubs of protein powder. Letters, shoved between pages of old newspapers. A pamphlet for a Catholic church that Mac had snuck into the snack cupboard. Clothes - how did so many of them end up here? He throws in shirts with the sleeves cut off, boxers, threadbare socks fished out from his bedroom drawers. Sheet music. A karaoke machine. The memory chip of his video camera, printed photos, CDs. Then receipts, papers. A hundred other seemingly insignificant things.

 

He drags it all down to the clinic on his lunchbreak, sits in the low-armed white chair while they do the scans, put objects down in front of him. The scanners monitor active areas of the brain, the way they light up in response to certain objects. Moving pixels - blue, red, green - the last vestiges of a two-year relationship.

 

Next, he sits down opposite Dr. Mathis, who stares at him over a lined yellow legal pad. The click of a pen, the monotone of explanation from an emotionally-detached professional. Dennis knows. Dennis has been that man a hundred times over. 

 

_ Tell me about Mac. Tell me how it started. _

 

Dennis talks because it’s a means to an end. He talks his way through the entire relationship, the entire past two years of his life. All seven hundred and thirty-two days of it.

 

_ I met him at the Jersey Shore, Stone Harbour. I’d just divorced Maureen; we were married for just under two months. I was paying alimony, but I kept the apartment - had a better lawyer, of course. She took the cats. Anyway - my sister took me down to the beach to… get my mind off things.  _

 

_ How did you meet Mac, specifically? _

 

_ My sister and I were actually there because we were invited to a wedding. Or, I was. She wanted to tag along - it was some guy we went to highschool with. Don’t know why you’d want to get married on a beach in February, but it was free booze, and Dee had some kind of thing for the groom back when we were kids. Turns out Mac knew the guy’s cousin. We sat down, got to talking.  _

 

_ And what was your first impression of him? _

 

_ That he was different. _

 

_ Different? _

 

_ Yeah. He had shit to say. And he had a flask of whiskey. He just seemed - nice. _

 

*

 

He takes the pill that night, swallows it down dry. He falls into bed.

 

*

 

_ The pill will put you to sleep. We’ll arrive at your house and make sure that you’re comfortable in bed, and then we’ll connect you to the equipment. For memories spanning two years, the procedure should take a few hours. Possibly up to five. We’ll delete your most recent memoires first, and work back to the very beginning.  _

 

_ Alright. So you knock me out, hook me up, do your work. Then what? _

 

_ Then, you wake up. Go about your life.  _

 

_ That’s it? _

 

_ That’s it. As if nothing ever happened _

 

_. _

*

  
  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  


Mac yanks open a drawer. The cutlery rattles. 

 

Sighing, Dennis pushes aside the pile of ripped-open envelopes. There’s a small mountain of paper on the stained kitchen countertop, a sea of letters between them. 

 

A fork for the mac and cheese, set down too loudly on the countertop. A pan smelling of burnt cheddar. The kitchen is too small, the light too stark. Dennis says: “Mac, don’t be a bitch about this.”

 

_ (This is the last time I saw you.) _

 

“I’ll be whatever I want to be about this, Dennis,” retorts Mac. He spoons dinner into bowls, mashes his fork into the too-soft pasta. Doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t look at Dennis or the pile of letters unspooling between them. 

 

It feels like anger all over again. Like deja vu before the moment has even been born. 

 

“I’m not apologising,” says Dennis, “it was the right thing to do.” It was. Of course it was. “One less thing to worry about.”

 

“One less thing to- Jesus Christ, Dennis.” That’s what gets him. Dennis remembers. The exasperation, the roll of his shoulders. The way he turns, scolding on his tongue. Burns like venom going down, even the second time. “I find out, after  _ years _ , that I could have had a relationship with my dad. That this whole time, you and my mother have just been, what? Plotting against me?”

 

“I’m not a fucking supervillain, Mac,” he spits. “Your dad’s a psychopath. Your mom doesn’t give a shit either way - I’m surprised she even kept them.” The words come too easily. “You were  going to read them, and then you were going to want to go and drive an hour and a half to see him. In whose car? Oh, right, mine.” Mac’s eyes are sharp and hurt and too bright. “Because you’re living paycheck to paycheck,” he rants, “because you can’t afford to pay the goddamn phone bill, or gas, or fix the dent you put in  _ my _ refrigerator. From which you eat groceries that I buy.”

 

“Not everything is about you, Dennis,” says Mac, turning his nose up like he can pretend that he’s above this conversation. “Not everything is about your dicked-up fridge, or your fucking car. This is my  _ dad  _ we’re talking about. He wrote to me. Since I was a kid, he wrote to me.”

 

“Yeah, but it wasn’t real shit,” protests Dennis. He has to make Mac see. Has to set this right. Say the right words this time, but the same ones come all too easily to his tongue. “It wasn’t- you know, it wasn’t  _ I love you, son _ , or  _ wish I could take you to the Phillies game this year, sure sucks I’m still in prison! _ ” Mac glowers, but Dennis barges on. “He wanted you to shove heroin up your butthole and waddle it in past security. He wanted cigarettes, porn mags. He’s a greasy old dickbag, Mac, and he wanted to beat it to Playboy knockoffs.”

 

Mac is steadfastly quiet, mashing at the pasta in his bowl until it turns to pulp. 

 

“Mac,” says Dennis, knuckles curled into fists against the counter. The metal of his fork bites into his palm. Frustration radiates at the back of his skull like the start of a migraine. “You can see that, right?” He stares at Mac’s face, at the submission in his tilted gaze. “That’s not inconceivable?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” says Mac, carefully. He intentionally misses Dennis’ point by a goddamn country mile. “I never read them.”

 

Dennis seethes. 

 

“Well I did,” he spits, leans forward. It’s vindictive. It’s punishing. Dennis doesn’t care. “And if it makes you feel better, he never once said that he loved you.”

 

He stares Mac down. The echo of his words builds in layers, filling the inside of his mouth until it cuts into the roof of it. Mac’s no genius, but when it comes down to it, he isn’t stupid. 

 

_ He never once said that he loved you. _

 

One second Mac is rabid across from him. The next, Dennis turns to the sound of the front door slamming shut, the knowledge that Mac has taken his coat and his scarf, and left. 

 

_ He’ll be back _ , Dennis thinks,  _ just needs some time to cool down. _

 

He opens his palms against the cool countertop. Hadn’t he been holding something, just now? Something sharp. He rubs his thumb over the four pricks in the skin of his palm, spaced like the prongs of a fork. There’s an ache behind his eyes. 

 

The lights flicker. When was the last time he’d replaced the bulb in here? The room seems smaller, somehow. The stovetop is empty. A smell hangs in the air, like burnt-

 

*

 

“Close the door, will you? Smoke’s coming in.”  

 

Mac has been out on the balcony for half an hour. The door is propped open with a brick, to keep it from swinging shut and locking. 

 

The cigarette smoke from the couple in the downstairs apartment is drifting up, wafting in on the february ice-chill. It makes Dennis’ head ache. He taps his pen against his notebook, lets the anger rise, climb up his spine

 

“But then I’d be locked out here,” points out Mac. He pours Irish whiskey into milk-and-sugar coffee. Sits there on his little sliver of a balcony with his feet propped up, boots to the snow-grey sky. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” says Dennis. He finds himself at the open balcony door. Things flicker if you don’t pay attention. He glances down to his empty hand. There’d been a pen- “Is that the Green Spot?” 

 

“Yeah, why?” Mac drowns his coffee in it gain, tilts the bottle Dennis’ way. “You want some?”

 

Dennis takes the offered bottle. Mac stares off into the distance, up at the TV-antenna, red-roof skyline of West Philly. 

 

“Thinking pretty hard,” Dennis observes. “What’ve you got in there, baby?”

 

Mac takes another sip of his coffee. Says, easy as anything: “Kids.”

 

Whiskey burns down his throat like it hasn’t done in ages. “What, like children?”

 

Mac’s brow furrows, he gives Dennis a strange look. “Yeah, like babies. Like raising a kid. I think I’d be pretty good at it.”

 

“Sure,” says Dennis, struck almost catatonic for a moment. He buries his confusion in another sip of whiskey. “This is hypothetical?”

 

A shake of the head. “No, dude. Why would I be joking?” The list is almost infinite. It starts with the Irish Coffee in Mac’s right hand. Ends with the two of them on this balcony in mid-January. “I want to raise a kid.”

 

Dennis rubs at his temple, sucks the whiskey off his top lip. “Jesus Christ, Mac,” he says, “with what money?”

 

“Well I was thinking, if you get that promotion,” says Mac, “and I pick up some more hours at the shop, our financial situation would be way more better.” He talks as if this were a viable, serious possibility. 

 

“We could - what, save enough to adopt a child? Do you know how much that costs?” 

 

“I could move in with you,” says Mac, “then we could save on rent-”

 

“It’s not a  _ we _ , Mac!” Dennis cuts him off too sharp, too quick. “ _ We _ ,” he gestures maybe a little manically between them, “cannot raise a child! I’m still paying alimony. You’re a secondhand car salesman, and, unfortunately for us, you’re paid on commission! Not to mention, you’re sitting out here pouring a twenty-five dollar bottle of whiskey into your coffee. You’re a goddamn alcoholic, Mac!”

 

“If I’m one, then you’re definitely one, Dennis,” says Mac, brows raised like he’s driving some kind of point home.

 

It’s the wrong one.

 

“Yes!” Dennis says, pacing the tiny balcony. “Of course I am! But you know what?” He stops, leans a little closer to Mac. “I’m a functioning one. We’re functional as shit, Mac, but we can’t have six beers and pass out on a weeknight, and then wake up with a kid crying at four in the morning.”

 

“My mom could help out,” says Mac, so stubborn that he must know he’s losing. 

 

“That baby would have lung cancer in a month,” hisses Dennis.

 

“She’d stop smoking. If there was a baby,” says Mac, jaw clenched.

 

“Like she did with you?” retorts Dennis, mouth twisted in too-sharp smirk. Something at the back of his mind aches. 

 

“ _ Fuck  _ you, Dennis,” says Mac, with feeling. He stands up, and empties his half-full coffee mug all over the front of Dennis’ work shirt. 

 

“Shit!” The cold air hits it, even as it burns his skin. “You fucking _ bastard _ !”

 

Mac kicks the brick doorstop out of the way, lets the door slam shut behind him. Dennis pounds at the door, teeth clenched in pain. 

 

“Hey pissdick,” he yells, “don’t leave me out here!”

 

He smacks the plastic, open-fisted. Hadn’t he been holding a bottle, just now? 

 

He yells again. Mac doesn’t answer.

 

Around him, the street blurs. A cold wind sweeps through, makes Dennis’ knuckles ache, steals the sharp words right out of his mouth. It roars unnaturally, whites-out the sound of his voice, tries to take the rest of Dennis along with it. He grips the door handle tight-

 

*

 

“Oh, hey. I thought you were working tonight.” 

 

Dennis spares a glance at Mac as he shuts the door behind him. Threadbare shirt, an old pair of Dennis’ boxers. Box of Chinese takeout in his hand. 

 

“I am,” says Dennis. “I’ve got a work dinner. I need to change my pants.” He traipses through Mac’s messy apartment to the bedroom, rifles through his closet. “I spilled mustard on them at lunch,” he explains. 

 

Mac watches him from the doorway, eating thick noodles from a cardboard container with a fork.

 

“That sucks,” he says, sincerely. Dennis feels his gaze as he strips his slacks off, steps into a pair he’d left here a week or so back. 

 

“Yeah,” says Dennis, “sure does, Mac.”

 

He looks up from doing up his belt again, to see Mac smiling a little. His eyes tease over Dennis’ chest. 

 

Dennis lets out a slow breath, forehead smoothing out, the ache in his shoulders lessening, for the moment. He brushes past Mac in the doorway, leaves a kiss on his mouth. 

 

“I’ll come over Tuesday,” says Dennis. “After work.” He touches Mac’s jaw, steals another from a salty bottom lip.

 

“Mm. Okay.” Another mouthful of noodles.

 

Dennis moves through the TV room. Opens the front door. Pauses too long.

 

“Did you forget something?” says Mac, leaned against the wall. He chews noisily. Dennis reconsiders going in for another kiss. 

 

“No,” he says instead. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

 

“Okay,” says Mac. “See you.”

 

The door swings shut behind him. In the hallway, the lights go out one by one. 

 

*

 

It’s dark. They’re drinking wine out of mugs like college students, watching the hockey. Mac’s face is quiet in the blue light of the TV. The room is cold, but Mac has the blanket wrapped around his legs. 

 

Dennis reaches over and tugs at the corner. When Mac doesn’t react he yanks harder, pulls the whole thing out from under him. 

 

“Jesus, Dennis, what are you doing?” Disgruntled, but too distracted by the game on screen to fight back. When they first met, he would have. Would have yanked it back, yanked Dennis with it. Would have wrestled until they were pressed down in the couch cushions. Would have kissed the wine off his mouth, touched his face, breathed him in. 

 

Dennis settles the blanket around his shoulders, pulls it in close. 

 

“This game is boring,” says Dennis, to break the white noise TV silence.

 

Mac doesn’t look at him. “You can change the channel.”

 

The windows are unnaturally dark, for this time of night. The announcer’s voice drones on. 

 

The remote is in his hand. A press of the button.

 

*

 

Bored in line at the DMV, leaning lazy against Mac’s side. The buzz of the coffee maker, a quiet kitchen -  _ pass the milk _ . Cold fingers tucking under the collar of his coat. Yelling at the touchdown of a televised football game. Finding the wrappers of Thin Mints stuffed between the couch cushions. 

 

Stubble against his cheek. Late-night snoring. Evenings spent lazy in the living room, bitching back and forth about their respective bosses over dinner and gesturing wildly with a pair of chopsticks, or a bitten-through pizza crust-  _ Dennis, you wouldn’t believe… _

 

Days, hours flicker by. 

 

Static. 

 

A blank screen.

 

*

 

_ Pick something good. _

 

*

 

Dennis sets a box of cereal bars into the cart, and navigates around a suspicious patch of liquid on the linoleum floor. 

 

A couple of shelves ahead, Mac is considering two different cereal boxes. 

 

An older woman, trundling along with her shopping cart. 

 

“The one on your right is better for you, honey.” She taps a finger on the box, chipped nail polish and arthritic knuckles. 

 

Mac glares. 

 

“I’m packing on  _ mass _ ,” he says, narrow-eyed. “Not that you would know anything about that.”

 

On either side, the shelves go on for miles. 

 

“Don’t have to be rude,” says the lady, already shuffling away. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” huffs Mac, turning to Dennis, “I don’t need a goddamn stranger weighing on my cereal choices.”

 

Dennis rolls the cart up beside him. “Goddamn right,” he says, “wrinkled bitch.”

 

Cereal almost forgotten, Mac turns to glare at her slowly retreating back. “It’s 7PM, people have shit to do, you know?” 

 

Dennis sighs, and reaches out to squeeze Mac’s wrist. “C’mon, baby. Pick a goddamn cereal and let’s get home.”

 

“‘Kay,” sighs Mac, and dumps the recommended cereal in the box anyway. “Did we get beans?”

 

“Nah,” says Dennis, “you get them, I’ll go to check out.” He extends a hand, gestures to Mac’s coat pocket. “Give me my wallet.”

 

Mac sighs, and digs his hand into his pocket. He looks suddenly familiar and sweet under the strange supermarket lighting, under the high, high ceiling-

 

but the lights begin to flicker, and the shelves on either side pour into the aisle like a line of dominos.

 

( _ Wait- _ )

 

*

 

_ That’s it? _

 

_ That’s it. As if nothing ever happened _

 

*

 

Mac peeks out from behind the heavy curtain.

 

“Okay, I’m not gonna lie to you,” he says. The shaky sigh rocks his shoulders. “I’m getting pretty nervous. That’s a lot of people out there, Den.” 

 

He shouldn’t be - his foundation is blended perfectly, the wig lace faultlessly seamed into place. It took a lot of effort for Dennis to shoulder his way into the backstage makeup crew. They’re an insular little group of half-blind old women who wouldn’t know a real powdering and setting technique if it slapped them in the teeth. 

 

But even under all that beautifully layered makeup, Mac looks pale. 

 

“Mac, baby.” Dennis steps forward to placate him, hands resting on his shoulders, thumbs kneading at knotted muscle. “My skull almost caved in from the sheer amount of show tunes you’ve been playing over the last month. You’ve been rehearsing non-stop. You ran lines with me. All five of them.”

 

“ _ Dennis _ .”

 

“Six. All six of them. Look-” he slides his hands over Mac’s shoulders, rubs his biceps like he can shake away the nerves. He can feel the grime and dust caked into the costume; it’s the ambiguous kind of brown, like it’s been given too many lives as too many different characters. “You’re better than every pretentious theatre bitch in here, okay?” 

 

Beyond the curtain, the seats are filling, the house is almost full. An impressive turn out, for a low-end community theater production. 

 

Mac nods, shakes his shoulders out. 

 

“There you go,” soothes Dennis. There’s an emotion bubbling to the surface - pride, that’s  _ pride _ . He’s proud of Mac, standing here in his shitty disciple costume, or whatever-the-fuck he’s playing. Proud of the squared shoulders and the memorized lines and songs and harmonies. Proud of the stage makeup - that definitely bears mentioning. “And I’m right in the front row,” he reassures. “Some big guy is saving my seat for me.”

 

Mac half-turns from the curtains. He’s frowning. “Big guy?”

 

“Hey, hey,” soothes Dennis. He steps around, setting himself between Mac and the slim view of the audience. A hand on each of Mac’s cheeks, centering his focus. “I’m only looking at you, okay? Only got eyes for you, big guy.”

 

That sparks a smile, confidence building itself back into the set of Mac’s stance. He touches the back of Dennis’ hand like he wants to hold it. 

 

In the background, faceless cast and crew members are darting in and out, putting the finishing touches on everything. The bell rings, cutting him off, and Mac perks up, scrambling to explain. “That means-”

 

“I know what it means,” snaps Dennis. He drops his hands, fixes a rumpled hem on the costume. Hearing Mac explaining basic and widely-known theatre traditions starts to really grind at a certain point. 

 

“Yeah, well if you knew what it meant, then you would be going back to your seat now,” points out Mac. There’s a soft bite to the words, no real weight to them. Dennis huffs. Leans forward for a kiss. 

 

“I don’t need some nagging bell to tell me what to do,” mutters Dennis, but the bell rings again, and he steals another kiss. 

 

“ _ Go _ ,” hisses Mac, even though he’s smiling under the attention. 

 

“Fine, fine,” grumbles Dennis. The murmur of the assembling audience fades in and out, like a worn-down laugh track. He turns to go downstairs to join them, but Mac catches his arm.

 

“Break a leg,” prompts Mac, expression open and expectant. “Tell me.”

 

Dennis sighs, wrist tight in Mac’s grip. “Don’t tell me that you’re superstitious now  _ as well _ -”

 

“ _ Dennis _ .” He’s smiling. 

 

And Dennis relents. “Alright, Macwell. Break both your goddamn legs. I hope you fall down the stairs and snap your neck.”

 

The smile breaks out over Mac’s face like a sunrise - it almost hurts to watch. “Thanks, babe,” he says, easy. Bland-faced actors are taking their places at the wings. Dennis really needs to get to his seat. 

 

_ (Not yet) _

 

“Maybe you should come with me,” says Dennis. The people moving around him seem like a strange, foreign swarm. There’s always something at the corner of his peripheral.

 

“What?” Confusion under all that stage paint. “What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t know,” says Dennis, honestly. Tension is racking up his spine. Someone bumps into his shoulder. He looks over and it’s the assistant from the clinic, dressed up like an angel. 

 

“Sorry,” she says, “didn’t see you there.” Then, as she breezes past: “You should get to your seat.”

 

“Yeah, Dennis, you really should,” presses Mac, hand squeezing his shoulder. 

 

“Mac, come with me.” Dennis ignores the thrum of the memory shifting around him. “I want you to come with me.”

 

“What, to the audience? Are you okay, babe?” Concern, as he reaches for Dennis, to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. The stage bell is ringing, high and insistent-

 

 

 

Dennis applauds blandly as the curtain rises. The bell has ceased ringing. He settles into his seat, program open on his lap.

 

Onstage, there’s some kind of monologue going on. Back-up singers sway in and out of the wings. 

 

“What is this show called?” whispers Dennis to the man next to him. The Big Guy that Mac was so worried about. 

 

“It’s written in the program,” he whispers back, eyes not moving from the performance. Already tired with Dennis, apparently.

 

“I can’t read the goddamn program,” Dennis hisses. Behind them, there’s disgruntled shush of  _ quiet _ . The audience lights are dim. In his lap, the name of the production blurs in big, blocky letters. Something religiously themed and gaudy. There were show tunes-

 

 

 

And then Mac is up there, looking kind of dashing under the stage lights. Even when he’s wrapped up in that grimy second-third-fourth-hand costume.

 

He says one of his six lines.

 

“ _ Yeah, baby! _ ” woops Dennis, getting an out of character grin and a sweet thumbs up from Mac on stage. 

 

“Would you shut up,” comes the voice of the obnoxious husher from the row behind. 

 

Dennis turns, ready to give that nosy bastard a piece of his mind, but quietly, because this is Mac’s moment-

 

 

 

Backstage is abuzz after the performance. Dennis elbows his way through the crowd to find Mac laughing with a wrinkled-old lesbian couple.

 

He sweeps in with a touch to his elbow, and a smile to the women. Lesbians are always shaky territory- his skeevy charm to them, is just skeevy, and Dennis is always knocked a little off balance. 

 

“Mac, honey,” he says, “can we talk?” He shoots the two women a smile, hoping it settles warm and human on his features. 

 

“Oh, sure,” says Mac, letting himself be lead away, “see you ladies later!” Dennis weaves them though the buzz of cast and crew as Mac babbles. “That was amazing! You saw me up there, right? I got  _ gasps _ \- I think I really sold it.”

 

He guides them down a slim hallway, where the runner rug on the floor is splattered and fraying at the corners, stapled down where it joins the wall - the place is a dump.

 

He tugs Mac through a door into a costume overflow room, and pushes him up against the door. 

 

“Dennis, what are you…”

 

Mac’s confused expression is caught between dry palms, and Dennis tips forward to kiss him. It’s sweet, below the smell of old foundation and dust. Mac is even a little sweaty from the dancing and the stage lighting. 

 

“You were so good, baby,” Dennis tells him, kisses that proud smile.

 

“You know what, it felt really good,” enthuses Mac, hands squeezing at Dennis’ hips, “I kinda felt like God put me on that stage or something, like-”

 

Dennis rolls his eyes, and distracts the adrenaline-fueled ramblings with another kiss, sliding his tongue into Mac’s mouth. Fingers flex at his hips, and there’s a sweet sigh.

 

They kiss like that until Dennis’ lips are slightly swollen, until Mac’s hands have started to play at his belt, easing under the waist of his pants to untuck his shirt. 

 

Dennis gets his mouth under Mac’s jaw, lips raw from stubble, and Mac clings to him, winds fingers into the front of his button-up, cups the side of his ribs. “Dennis,” he says, eyes bright, voice quiet and intimate as Dennis kisses him again, as they share breaths, “Dennis, I’m so happy.” 

 

It overwhelms him. They look at each other, in the wavering light of the moth-studded lightbulb overhead. 

 

“Happy?” echoes Dennis.

 

“Yeah, like,” he smooths his hands over Dennis’ chest, over his quick-paced heart, “I had a dad, but I didn’t really  _ have  _ a dad after he went to jail. And my mom was working. And all I had to look forward to was short-term stuff - I knew I wasn’t going to college, and I made money dealing.” He touches the untucked wrinkles of Dennis’ shirt, slides warm fingers underneath to touch a too-defined hipbone. “Dennis, I hated myself,” he says, too lightly. His foundation has rubbed off in places, but his eyes are bright. 

 

“But now things are way more better,” he continues, and Dennis’ heart aches. “I’ve got a real job. I’m super awesome at musical theatre, which is just so cool, Den.” A full-blown grin. “I see my dad now sometimes. I go to the best church, which doesn’t even care if I’m gay. Last month, we bought a karaoke machine. And Dennis-” 

 

He tells himself that he doesn’t want to hear it, but he  _ does _ .

 

“I love you,” says Mac. “I’m really in love with you. Like, I could  _ marry  _ you, Dennis.”

 

“Jesus,” breathes Dennis, the feeling washing over him, has him almost buckling at the knees. “Jesus Christ, what have I done.”

 

He steps back, reeling with it, and digs his fingers into his temples. 

 

“I don’t mean  _ now _ ,” says Mac, hopeless, lovestruck expression dropping off his face. 

 

“I know,” grits out Dennis, “I know. I just don’t want to lose this one.” He stares at Mac, wills him to understand. “I know I did this. I chose this. But I need to keep this one.” 

 

Wide eyed, Dennis paces in the small space, and Mac watches, his hands in hesitant fists at his sides. 

 

“You erased me first!” blurts Dennis, waving his arms around, admittedly a touch dramatically. “You did this to us, Mac.” A sharp pointer finger to the chest. “You’re the reason they’re taking this away.”

 

“You must’ve made me pretty mad,” says Mac, “to make me erase you.”

 

Dennis stares at him, hard. 

 

Mac stares back. He says: “So what are you gonna do about it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be great!

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my [tumblr](https://ronaldmcbustanut.tumblr.com/) :)


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